


Love

by TrulyCertain



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study-ish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s thrown about so much, that word, as if it’s just something simple and decorative. People have the sheer bloody arrogance to think that they know what it means.</p><p>Dorian used to know once. Or at least, he thinks he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love

It’s thrown about so much, that word, as if it’s just something simple and decorative. People have the sheer bloody arrogance to think that they know what it means.

Dorian used to know once. Or at least, he  _thinks_  he did; on the darker nights, when no text will hold his attention and he gazes out of the window like some listless, lovesick maiden in an awful novel, as if he can see across the ocean or perhaps return to his home through sheer force of will, he wonders.

His father smiling, laughing: too rare a sight by far, but a welcome one. His mother watching with evident amusement, some quip or wry observation having just left her mouth. (Yes, some things are indeed hereditary; whatever you were about to say, don’t.)

His first spell. Purely accidental, of course; he was too young for anything else. The flames blooming in his palm, and his father’s overjoyed pride.

Both of them - the two of them too rarely in the same room, each evidently too busy to spare the time - carefully recreating letters on parchment, showing them to him and making him dutifully reproduce them. His lips moving as he tried falteringly to master the words. First Tevene, then later, when he was older, Common, his mother insisting it might be useful despite his father’s protests. Now he’s here, Common around him and his native tongue an ocean away, he’s glad of her stubbornness.

The two of them plying him with books when he asked for more, as he always did.

 _You’ll be a magister yet_. His father’s pride, always that damned  _pride._

There are many kinds of love, however, and he remembers the others, too. Oh, he remembers far too much.

Bronze skin, strong shoulders and a laugh that could light up a room. The man’s the finest thing he’s ever seen, and he knows enough to hide it by now, his gaze careful, but he finds himself entranced.

 _Love._ The word unspoken. Hot kisses and wandering hands and whispered endearments and a trembling, reverent uncertainty.

The word slipping from his mouth, and the momentary panic that follows. Knowing he’ll be abandoned, and that knowledge making the inevitable turning away no less painful. (It’s all in the eyes, you see. They say things with their eyes before their mouths ever become involved.)

 _Rilenius._ ( _He would have said yes_ , he remembers Cole saying, and perhaps that’s true… No. There are some things he will not allow himself to speak of, or to dream of.)

All gone now, of course. For better or for worse. Sometimes he’s not sure which.

Love has not been his for a long time. He knows when he sees the dirty looks, hears the half-hushed gossip in the halls and corridors, that it won’t be here, either. Friendship, perhaps, yes. But family, or the sort of love found in Cassandra’s ridiculous novels? Someone to take his hand and to whisper in his ear on the darker nights? No.

He pretends to be happy with this state of affairs. He’s got quite good at that over the years; believe him, he’s had plenty of practice.

He isn’t.

Trevelyan is smarter than he looks, with magic almost to rival Dorian’s own (not that Dorian would ever admit that, obviously). He sits and reads with him, laughs at Dorian’s absentminded polemic and innuendo - and not just out of politeness, either; Dorian can always tell. He  _listens,_ and his responses are quick, sharp. Funny. Surprisingly kind, often.

Some time ago,  _the Herald_ became  _Trevelyan,_ who then became  _Maxwell._ And oh, look, the man’s got his claws into Dorian’s heart and refuses to let go. It’s dreadfully annoying.

He tries to deny it, to laugh it off as simple lust. After all, the man’s hardly ugly, and lust is easier, kinder for everyone involved. 

When Maxwell falls unceremoniously to his knees, clutching at his hand, after he closes a rift, Dorian runs to him. It’s instinct, a pull. He has spent so long being  _careful,_ so long with eyes upon him, and no matter how many times he jokes about being a pariah this abandonment of appearances, this desperate _tug,_ is new to him. He crouches beside him, doing his best to check him over, despite the fact that he’s never been a healer, none of them know much about the Mark, and Maxwell refuses to shut up and allow him.

“I’m fine,” Maxwell protests, “I’m…”

Dorian is still holding Maxwell’s wrist, has an arm round his shoulders to steady him. “Sweating, pale and gritting your teeth,” Dorian retorts. “Not your most handsome moment. And definitely not the face of someone who’s  _fine.”_ Frustration threatens to get the better of him. He can run at the mouth, certainly, but what can he actually do to help? Nothing.

Maxwell cries out, bowing under the weight of more pain, his eyes closing. Seeing him like this is a shock; it’s never been this bad before - or at least, Maxwell’s never let them see this before.

“Is it always like this?” Dorian asks, unable to help himself. The answer will probably haunt him, but he needs to know. 

“N - not much,” Maxwell manages, his teeth gritted. But his eyes meet Dorian’s and they’re wary, belying his words. (It’s all in the eyes. Always.)

The falsehood makes Dorian angry, and he can’t help it. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an awful liar?” he snaps.

A gritted-out, bitten-off, half-hysterical laugh. There are tears in Maxwell’s eyes.  “Plen… plenty of times.”

There must be  _something_ he can do, Dorian’s heart insists, even as he knows there isn’t. Considering all his studies and his spells, there must be  _something,_ he thinks desperately; he can’t just sit and watch the suffering of a good man, the man he - 

he -

“ _Dorian,”_ Maxwell gasps, clutching at him and eventually grabbing his shoulder. “Pain’s - pain’s…  _everywhere_.”

The weight of supporting him makes Dorian slump slightly, but he does his best to straighten his spine, to keep Maxwell upright.

“I - “ Maxwell tries. His eyes close again. He exhales, heavily, slowly, and then his muscles seem to relax, his focus returning. He looks at Dorian, and then looks at him again. Looks down.

He realizes that sometime during all this he’s taken Maxwell’s hand, and he’s holding it tightly.

He swiftly lets go of it, standing and offering Maxwell a smile. (If it’s shaky and it doesn’t meet his eyes, he’s the only one who has to know.) “Well, there are better ways to spend an afternoon.”

With a weak laugh, Maxwell climbs unsteadily to his feet. “Agreed.”

Sera and Varric are watching them. The dwarf has raised an eyebrow, and Sera’s grinning in a way that’s rather worrying. 

“I notice that neither of you rushed to offer aid,” Dorian remarks. It’s sharper than he meant it to be.

Varric doesn’t lower his eyebrow. “Yeah, we’re noticing too.”

They soon set off again, and Dorian’s relieved that the conversation isn’t continued.

That is, until Sera leans over, nods at Maxwell up ahead, and says, “So, you and him. Shagging yet?”

 _Venhedis._ “I - “

“Leave it, Sera,” Maxwell says curtly, surprising them both. Usually he seems to get on quite well with her.

When Maxwell approaches him a few days later, he’s less surprised than he probably should be.

They start something between them. Dorian tries his utmost to pretend he isn’t terrified, concentrating instead on the way Maxwell’s skin feels under his hands, on the feeling that unfurls in his chest and spreads slowly, pleasantly, like the warmth of a good fire (or an even better whisky) whenever he’s with him.

And then the word has to go and fall out of his mouth. He calls him  _amatus_ without thinking. A slip of the tongue, and one that he’s sure will cost him dearly.

Maxwell pauses. “You know,” he says conversationally, casually, as if the topic is of no apparent interest to him, “back in the Circle, we were required to study Arcanum.”

Dorian’s heart drops, because now he understands. “I… see,” is his careful reply. He braces himself, waiting for the turning away.

“As you’ll no doubt know from your extensive studies, Arcanum has a common root with Tevene.” Maxwell steps closer. Closer. “Which means I have a fairly good idea what you just called me.” He raises his hands to hold Dorian’s face. “I…” He kisses Dorian softly, does it again. “I love you too,” he breathes against Dorian’s mouth.

Dorian finally manages to regain his wits. He kisses Maxwell, pulls him closer, his question answered.

An interesting word, love. Perhaps he can understand a little of its meaning after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write Dorian for a long time. Hope I did him justice!
> 
> Written as part of the [Dragon Age 100 Challenge](http://mxcatterbug.tumblr.com/post/113139610914/dragon-age-100-challenge). Originally posted on [my Tumblr](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com/).


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